The rolls and
harrows lie at rest beside
The battered
road; and spreading far and wide
Above the
russet clods, the corn is seen
Sprouting its
spiry points of tender green,
Where squats
the hare, to terrors wide awake,
Like some
brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Opening their
golden caskets to the sun,
The
buttercups make schoolboys eager run,
To see who
shall be first to pluck the prize--
Up from their
hurry, see, the skylark flies,
And o'er her
half-formed nest, with happy wings
Winnows the
air, till in the cloud she sings,
Then hangs a
dust-spot in the sunny skies,
And drops,
and drops, till in her nest she lies,
Which they
unheeded passed--not dreaming then
That birds
which flew so high would drop agen
To nests upon
the ground, which anything
May come at
to destroy. Had they the wing
Like such a
bird, themselves would be too proud,
And build on
nothing but a passing cloud!
As free from
danger as the heavens are free
From pain and
toil, there would they build and be,
And sail
about the world to scenes unheard
Of and
unseen--Oh, were they but a bird!
So think
they, while they listen to its song,
And smile and
fancy and so pass along;
While its low
nest, moist with the dews of morn,
Lies safely,
with the leveret, in the corn.
NOTE:
I’m not sure what drew me to John Clare’s The Skylark (from The Rural Muse) this morning or to these hare and bird paintings from ancient Pompeii.
Possibly it was something as simple as matching in my
mind the vivid, visceral life the English poet and Italian painters each invested
in their natural world renderings.
Or possibly I was sensing and reacting to the permanently-on-the-edge-of-danger status that defines the hare and the ground-nesting skylark’s existence (and frankly the lives of most wild animals) and
identifying it with Clare's disaster-just-around-the-corner life (the great poet lived on the edge of a forest of madness that later surrounded him) and that of the precarious Pompeiians (who lived on the
edge of Vesuvius).
I think my pinched (often-on-the-edge) back pricked my brain and animated me, but I'm glad it did. What a wonderful poem; what great
paintings!
Yesterday evening was lovely also. Our dinner guests couldn’t have been nicer
and getting the house together for them, restoring its gleam, made a world of
difference in our psyches, my troubled back notwithstanding. The meal we served is the perfect relaxed
entertaining/spending time with your guests program -- not too much hassle in cooking and keeping things moving. If
anyone is interested, I will send you the carte (along with wine
suggestions).
Six more days until Jane’s home. So far, I’ve learned from her emails that she
has now added to my shot glass collection by filling in the missing Amsterdam
and Copenhagen pieces. She’s a lovely
girl. I hope she's trying some Danish foods she doesn't think she'd enjoy. I tried to prime her for the experience by telling her that apparently Alfred Hitchcock used to have Universal Studios import his breakfast bacon (a food she does enjoy) for him regularly from Denmark. Unfortunately, she's not yet a big Alfred Hitchcock fan, so I don't think that "reached" her at all.
